Strategy for Breaking the Deadlock

Nakayama Hayao nodded slightly without rebutting him. He recalled the disagreements within Sega over its home console strategy.

Many people were still trapped in the habit of porting arcade games, believing that simply bringing popular arcade titles to home consoles would guarantee huge sales.

"Can Sega achieve this kind of 'save' technology right now?" he asked.

Takuya shook his head.

"It's not technically impossible, but we don't have time to develop a disk system with the same capacity."

"Our Master System's market share would also make any related effort twice as hard for half the result."

"Nintendo is pushing the hardware—the Famicom Disk System—and the software—The Legend of Zelda—in tandem this time. They've clearly been planning this for a long time."

"Planning this for a long time..." Nakayama Hayao repeated the words, a cold curve tugging at his lips.

"That old fox Yamauchi Hiroshi always puts in work where no one else can see."

He paused, as if digesting the information.

"Then what do you suggest?" Nakayama Hayao pressed.

Takuya pondered for a moment.

"Avoid their edge, but that doesn't mean doing nothing."

"We should continue leveraging our advantages in the arcade sector and keep the momentum going."

"And we should put development of our next-generation 16-bit home console on the agenda, surpassing Nintendo comprehensively in both performance and functionality. But until then, we can only lie low in the home console market and gather our strength."

A sharpness unique to the young shone in Takuya's eyes. Once again, he brought up the plan for a next-generation 16-bit console that he had discussed with his father last time.

"We can't keep following Nintendo around and copying them. We need to create something truly Sega's—something that can lead the trend."

"For example, stronger graphics processing, more powerful sound effects, or entirely new types of games. But all of that requires powerful hardware and sufficient storage capacity. The current level of hardware simply can't support such a plan. Without a new console, it's all just a mirage."

Nakayama Hayao looked at his son, and for the first time, undisguised appreciation appeared in his eyes.

This kid had not only seen the threat—he had already pointed out the way to break the deadlock during their last talk.

And his thinking was clear, striking straight at the heart of the matter.

He leaned back in his chair, picked up the cigar cutter on the desk, and snipped off the cigar's tip with a click.

"The next-generation console..." he slowly said, deep in thought.

"It seems it's time to make those old guys shift their asses."

He lit the cigar and took a puff. Through the curling smoke, his gaze sharpened.

"Takuya, do you have any more specific ideas for the next-generation console plan?"

"After Nintendo's new game launches, compile a detailed report for me based on how their game performs."

"I want those people on the board to hear how Sega's young people see the future."

Takuya's heart stirred. He knew that his father was truly placing him in a position where he could influence the company's strategic decisions.

"Yes, Father," he replied.

In late February, the last lingering traces of New Year's languor in Tokyo's air were utterly swept away by a sudden wave of market frenzy.

On February 21, Nintendo's carefully prepared Famicom Disk System (FDS), along with its flagship title, The Legend of Zelda, officially hit the market.

Like a depth charge thrown into the sea, it instantly detonated the entire consumer electronics industry.

Outside major electronics stores, endless lines of people who had queued overnight wound around the streets. Players' eyes gleamed with longing and excitement for a brand-new gaming experience, and the frenzied rush to buy even made the social news pages.

A few days later, the final week of February arrived.

At Sega headquarters, the morning sun shone through the glass curtain walls, cutting bright patches of light across the floor.

Nakayama Takuya, dressed in a well-tailored suit, strode briskly through the lobby.

The air carried the mingled scent of coffee and freshly printed paper.

As usual, he stopped at the reception desk and glanced over the latest issues of mainstream gaming magazines that had just arrived on the magazine rack.

The receptionist smiled and handed him several magazines.

"Good morning, Nakayama-san."

"Good morning."

Takuya casually picked up the top issue of Famitsu. Its glaring headline covered nearly the entire front page.

"The First Perfect Score in History? The Legend of Zelda—A Game That Defines an Era!"

The cover of the nearby Dengeki magazine was just as striking.

"The Call of Hyrule! The Famicom Disk System Opens a New Era for Home Gaming!"

Another issue of Beep focused on its core feature.

"Save Data! No More Fearing Mom Coming Home! The Revolutionary Experience Brought by The Legend of Zelda!"

Everywhere he looked, there was praise and analysis of The Legend of Zelda and the Famicom Disk System.

Takuya held the magazine as he slowly walked toward the elevator, his fingertips unconsciously stroking the smooth coated paper.

He quickly skimmed several of the key reviews, every one of them lavish with praise.

The reviewers described in detail the game's abundant content, outstanding fun factor, ingenious gameplay design, and the convenience brought by its save system.

Players could finally devote dozens, even hundreds of hours without worry, immersing themselves in a vast fantasy world.

This kind of gaming experience, capable of deeply binding players' time and emotions, was decisively important to consolidating the Famicom ecosystem—almost a dimensionality-reduction strike.

Beyond that, many of the designs in The Legend of Zelda were unprecedented and could provide game developers with a wealth of inspiration.

Takuya's brow furrowed ever so slightly.

The Legend of Zelda truly was, just as it had been judged in his previous life, "the best in the world."

Its significance as guidance for game developers was equally important. "If you don't know how to make games, just copy Zelda" had not first appeared in the mobile game era; plenty of people had already been doing exactly that in this era.

The pressure weighed heavily on him.

But perhaps that was a good thing too.

Instead, a nearly imperceptible curve lifted the corner of Takuya's mouth. In another month, the world would witness for the first time, amid adversity, the power of a true flagship launch title. The one-two sales punch of The Legend of Zelda and the Disk System would wake up those old fossils on the board.

With The Legend of Zelda, this "super reference point," before them, those old men on the board who remained conservative about investing heavily in the development of a 16-bit home console should be able to recognize more clearly the importance of technological generation gaps and content innovation.

Without a product that truly offered a generation-defining experience, there was simply no way to shake Nintendo's foundation in the home console market.

"Ding." The elevator doors opened.

Just as he was about to step inside, the receptionist's slightly apologetic voice came from behind him.

"Ah, Mr. Nakayama, please wait a moment."

"There's a courier package for you."

Takuya turned around, somewhat surprised.

The receptionist handed him a thin kraft-paper document envelope with both hands.

"A courier package?"